


Surrender the Setting Sun

by WhisperingOrchard



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 40sstuck, 50sstuck, Angst, Eventual Sex is possible, Forbidden Love, Historical AU, M/M, Romance, Sadstuck, Still of the Night, stillotn, stssun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingOrchard/pseuds/WhisperingOrchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows naught of how many years he has remaining--only that the remainder of his life shall be spent in isolation, in secrecy...</p><p>His name is Dirk Strider, and he has his life predicted in its entirety.</p><p>But, sometimes, the unpredictable is all a person needs to lift their chin an extra inch.</p><p>~ Companion to Still of the Night, though can be read separately ~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side-companion-thing to my other fic, Still of the Night. This version is from Dirk's POV. The other fanfic is finished, if you choose to read that first.
> 
> That being said, more will be discussed in the end note. Enjoy.

It is entirely by chance that Dirk Strider visits the diner that fateful morning.

Under normal circumstances, he has never been one for eating breakfast; he gets up so late in the day that breakfast loses virtually all purpose, with lunch so closely approaching. Only on those mornings in which he awakens unacceptably early does a cause for eating arise, and so it is that he approaches the aforementioned diner.

Giving an appropriate yawn, he ambles leisurely down the sidewalk, stuffing his hands into the thick pockets of his pants. The lingering smell of gasoline clings to the inner walls of his nostrils, making him briefly scrunch up his nose in distaste; his sunglasses hop once upon his face in the motion. The discernible scent of gas had prompted a removal of everyone in his apartment complex around 7:00 am, of all times; thus it is that a rather drowsy Dirk idles around with a churning in his stomach and a deadpan expression on his face. His shoe catches suddenly on a risen portion of the sidewalk; he stumbles, steadies himself--yet the motion sends a jolt of dull pain shooting through his leg.

Casually regaining his cool, he turns toward the diner and peers nonchalantly up at the neon sign above the door. _The Dolorosa Diner_? What a peculiar name. He snorts, though the expression (or, rather, lack thereof) on his face remains unwavering. Times have been relatively poor as of late, and it certainly seems to have taken a toll on Dirk's nerves. Normally, he is plenty content with life--with everything around him.

But then, he supposes, times have been changing.

Removing a hand from the crevices of his pant pocket, Dirk lifts his arm and lightly pushes the door ajar, holding it open as he hobbles painfully into the diner. That wretched leg of his is beginning to act up again, it would seem, since he staggered over the sidewalk. He's only twenty years old, for fuck's sake! And now, thanks to that blasted War, he has the body of a senior citizen... He shakes his head in dismay at the aspect; Dave would be ashamed of him. 

As he strolls into the waiting area, his eyes lift curiously up to examine the general atmosphere of the diner. It's relatively small, and a bit cliche, a fact that is only further emphasized by the checkered tile clacking beneath his feet. Yet, despite its tight space, it is positively _bustling_ with people--young and old, singles and couples, men and women and children alike...

It's not that Dirk is antisocial; he simply dislikes being around so many people for a long period of time. Call it silly, for it probably is on the surface, but, within him, such a discomfort stems from a very plausible reason.

In short, he has far too many secrets for comfortable socializing.

At last, he makes his way up to the counter; another short yawn slips through his lips as he eyes the waitress with a tired frown.  She seems far too perky, especially for being awake at this hour. Her long, manicured nails tap absently against the menu in her hand; a smile remains permanently glued to her face as she peers around at the occupied tables. Running a hand through the thick blonde curls that (in Dirk's opinion) all but devour her face, she falters for a minute as her eyes drift over to meet the Strider's hidden gaze. One of his flaxen eyebrows rises slightly, though he does not waver.  What is this woman's problem? She appears nervous, yet not at all in an infatuated kind of way--if anything, she looks almost _frightened_.

And this is one of the many reasons, he thinks bitterly, that he is homosexual.

At last, she parts that sticky, make-up-laden mouth to speak; her voice quivers with every stressed syllable. "Err, I'm sorry, sir, but we're completely full this morning..." She nibbles her lower lip in anxious thought.

A small sigh flits through his nostrils. It figures--the one day he wakes up early enough to eat breakfast is the day that occupancy is brimmed full. Pushing his pointy sunglasses back up his nose, Dirk nods once and turns thusly to make his departure.

"Miss, I would be real delighted to share my table!"

A cheery, masculine voice floats on the air; Dirk's ears barely catch the utterance over the bustling sound of the crowd. All the same, he stops halfway out the door and casually cranes his neck to glance across the diner at the man in question.

To say the least, he's a strange looking fellow...

Dirk takes a swift step back inside as the waitress hurriedly nods her head and clears her throat. She beckons for him to follow her to the table, more than willing to rid herself of this peculiar blonde. Wordlessly, he trails behind her, eyes fixated still upon the man with whom he will sit.

The stranger's frontmost upper teeth protrude enough to be distinctly visible from afar, a feature which distracts a bit from everything else.  Dirk isn't so certain he would categorize him as being particularly attractive or unattractive--more of an average middle-ground, at best. And... Yet, as he approaches the man's table, he finds himself unable to look away from that befuddled tan face--those striking green eyes... It's certainly strange--almost like an internal connection, reeling him in like a fish, helpless against the raging current.

He's beginning to wish somebody would cut the line and let him drift away, for should they truly have such a binding thread, it will be nothing short of dangerous for them both.

Gnawing away at the inside of his cheek, Dirk tugs his hidden gaze away from that vivid emerald stare--at least, long enough to sit himself comfortably down across from the stranger. Said man continues to eye him with the utmost caution, wary eyes glinting behind those thick-rimmed spectacles. Even this man seems uncertain of him... Is Dirk truly so perturbing...?

"Err..." At last, his strange acquaintance opens his mouth to speak; his voice catches once, though it goes mostly unnoticed by the Strider across from him. "H-Here's a menu, mate..."

A menu? Ah, it would appear that the waitress, in her distress, neglected to put the menu down in front of the blonde. As such, the other man picks up his own menu with careful fingers and sets it gingerly in front of Dirk, who gives a simple shake of the head. "I'm not hungry." Well, this is a bit of a bluff, but his stomach has always been a bit tempermental; it would be best to avoid feeding it an extra meal. Instead, he turns toward the waitress and orders a simple cup of coffee, nodding at her once with a gentle firmness. He does not wish to deter her, yet so often his countenance goes misread. Perhaps these intimidating sunglasses aren't the brightest idea after all, no joke intended.

Feeling the other man's gaze upon him, Dirk fixates his attention back at the stranger, thoughts scrambling to come up with a decent conversational topic.  Unfortunately, social interactions have never been his strongest suit; come to think of it, there are a number of reasons he doesn't have many connections.

"... Strider." His name slips forth from a leaden tongue; his eyes do not stray once from the other man's face. "The name's Dirk Strider." An awkward silence breeds between them as Jake continues to gawk somewhat anxiously in his direction. Strangely, bitterly, Dirk is almost certain it's not out of positive inclinations. A slow straw eyebrow rises above the blonde's sunglasses, inquiring silently about the other's name and attempting to decipher the meaning behind the stranger's  bizarre actions.

"Ah... Jake English." Said man swallows; a pronounced Adam's apple bobs deliciously in his throa-- _dear god, stop it_. This is so unseemly--so unlike Dirk. Ordinarily, of course, jumping all over men is absurd and falsely suspected, but this particular specimen... Well, he has proven the Strider wrong on multiple counts thus far; he finds that he can't help but crave further undermining, not necessarily out of romantic interest, but rather out of curiosity.  How much more does this man have up his sleeve? "Delighted to meet you, old chap."

A whisper of a grin tugs at Dirk's lips. That accent, too... It's petty, he knows, and such love is forbidden, but something about this "Jake English" intrigues him to no end.

"S-So..." Jake clears his throat, snapping Dirk free from his captivated trance. "Um, what do you do for a living?"

Before he is allowed the chance to speak, Dirk is cut off by the mug of coffee that suddenly appears in front of him; the waitress gives him no further glance--no other word--before turning to serve another table. With a faint snort in her general direction, Dirk pushes his shades back up his nose and reaches for his complementary glass of water.

"Hot drinks don't sit well with me." He keeps the explanation brief, curt, when Jake stares onward in perplexity as Dirk downs the entire glass in a few large gulps. Taking the coffee mug in his free hand, Dirk pours the steaming caffeinated beverage into the glass; little rivlets of black course expertly through the tightest of crevices between shards of cubed ice as he revolves the bottom of the glass a few times. "And I'm unemployed."

"... Oh..." Drawing buck teeth over his uncertain lower lip, Jake averts his gaze and studies the table beneath his fingers; at least, this is what Dirk assumes. He has not yet ascertained the meaning behind Jake's peculiar mannerisms, but perhaps that's where all of his attraction lies in the first place. The man is dashing, unique, and a bit unpredictable--and Dirk has only just met him moments ago. 

"Gee, sorry about that."

"Don't be." Passing over Dirk's face is a wince, however subtle; he answered that far too quickly. A faint heat settles in his freckled cheeks. Is he a Strider or isn't he? It's high time he manned up and retained his cool composure. No being, man or woman or something else entirely, shall ever break down his barrier. What else is a closeted "mental case" to do? "I'll get a sweet deal somewhere. Just gotta give it time." His shielded orange eyes flit up to glance gravely at the other man's burdened face.

"... I work down at the Chrysler factory, a few miles away. Blimey, do I hate it..." Jake shakes his head. "Miss the good old days of wrestling down wild creatures every morning just to survive. Miss the adventure of it all..."

Jake babbles on now, slipping into a heavier accent than he previously held as nervous conversation begins to brew.  Fortunately for the adventurer, his tripping tongue goes mostly unnoticed by Dirk, who finds himself far too lost in his own thoughts for any proper attention. It's not love, he reassures himself, though love could possibly stem from it; whatever he is feeling, he wishes it would just die down. Neither of them can afford to blow a cover of that sort.

"--Gadzooks, look at the time! Sorry to leave you here, mate, but I've another adventure in the factory business to get on with! So... Er, so long!"

... Hold on... What? Where is he...?

Jake's farewell snaps Dirk clean from his reverie, though all too late; the tanned man is stumbling swiftly out the door before Dirk can so much as bid him goodbye. A begrudging irritation crawls out from his throat in the form of a grumbled expletive--he takes another hesitant sip of his iced coffee.

Calm down, Strider, he tells himself. There isn't any reason to overreact. That Jake fellow is pretty freaked out about Dirk, and besides, the chance of any real romance having budded between them is next to none, realistically speaking.

After all, Dirk has never believed, for even the briefest of moments, that romance is in his cards. It simply isn't meant to be--being queer is nothing short of taboo, and as such, the chances of finding another man who reciprocates his desires are outrageously slim.

Dirk Strider has never believed that he stands a fraction of a chance when it comes to gaining the affections of another person--of another _man_.

But, then, he has never believed in love at first sight either.

Idly running his finger along the rim of the glass, he rests his chin casually in his palm with a brief grunt. No, he thinks with a quick hand through slicked-back hair. No.

He doesn't believe this will be the last that he sees of a certain Jake English. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Decided to go ahead and put this chapter up. I feel like it is lacking, but the next few should hopefully bring me up to writing standards again. ^~^;;
> 
> I had mentioned writing only certain StillOTN chapters here, but a part of me wants to rewrite the whole thing from Dirk's POV. First off, please tell me if you think that would be too much. Secondly, if I were to do that, don't worry, I would take away/add chapters as necessary. So some things might happen here that you didn't get to see in the other fanfic (such as Dave and Dirk during the spring months, in the second half of the story). Regardless of what I decide (which is influenced by your input), thank you for sticking with me. If you're a new reader, welcome.
> 
> Either way, please leave kudos/commentary/etc. as you feel necessary. You can follow me on tumblr under the blog "lore-heika" and under the tags "stillotn" and "stssun".


	2. Chapter 2

A week slips by, monotonous and heavy as it lingers in the forefront of Dirk's troubled mind. So much has happened, and, yet, so little seems to have changed in his lifestyle. Truly, the past seven days have fluttered on past, neither swift nor slow in their rhythmic ways; anticipation has settled sourly in the pit of Dirk's stomach.

Kneading his forehead with a numbed forefinger, the Strider swings an arm across his mattress and bats it blindly around; his finger grazes the "off" button on his alarm clock and the little dual bells cease their obnoxious jingling.  His hand slips heavily from the little mechanism and flat onto the bedside table, brushing against the outer rim of his triangular sunglasses. He picks them up and gingerly unfolds them, dragging his hand in a groggy fashion up to his face and placing them atop his freckled nose. As such, he parts his heavy eyelids; they blink a few times in rapid succession as he adjusts his vision to the faint light drifting in through the curtains.

It would seem that morning has fallen upon him.

With a peculiar amount of determination, Dirk forces his body into a sitting position; he briefly leans forward to pop his stiffened back. A tiny yawn pushes its way past his lips as he reassesses his current situation. It's a Monday--his first day at his newly acquired job... 

Eh.

Work or no work, it is far too early to be awake.

Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, he pushes himself up and out of bed with a long exhale. So many things have been bustling about within the confinements of his mind; the past week has, as such, been nigh unbearable.

First of all, there's this whole "work" thing that he must adjust to. Having been unemployed for almost a solid year, it will prove most difficult getting accustomed to such a routine lifestyle--to waking obscenely early, to tinkering for at least eight solid hours, to coming home exhausted and caked with oily grime...

Unfortunately, he's never been a creature of habit.

Having a job also means having less time to himself, which will surely trip him up in the long run. He will have far fewer hours to enjoy himself, to call up Dave and pester him; it also means less time to work on that old arm-like mechanism of his. Subconsciously, his eyes flit briefly over to the wired object lying awkwardly against the leg of the nightstand, where it had been placed the previous night prior to Dirk's falling asleep. It's clunky, and it's quite unlikely that he'll go anywhere with it, but at least it gives him something to tinker with; it loosens his brain some, anyway.

Running a tired hand through his hair, he allows his attention to wander to his physical appearance, fairly uncertain how to dress for such an occasion as garagework. To arrive overdressed or casual will come off as unprofessional (and, to most people, mildly embarrassing). Perhaps there will be an opportunity to change beforehand...?

Mulling over the different possibilities in his head, Dirk meanders along the wood beneath his bare feet, stopping in front of a simple, oak-finished dresser. He supposes a simple collared shirt will do... After all, such outfits are common in both formal and informal fashion. Yes, this seems like the best plan. Grabbing an ashen button-up from the drawer, he gathers up the rest of his clothes and dresses quickly, effortlessly, in an attempt to hurry things along.

With any hope, he will have time to run by the diner and happen across a certain English again.

In truth, he has neither met nor seen the other man since last Monday, when they first encountered one another; yet the other's essence remains firmly present in the back of Dirk's mind. It's no obsession--nothing that inhibits his ability to function as a proper human being--but the aspect of seeing the other's beautifully baffled face leaves him with quivering knees. Is this what love is supposed to feel like? Craving the exotic accent, the contoured jaw, the tantalizing voice...

And all after a single, five-minute encounter. Sort of funny, how the heart works sometimes.

How ridiculous he must sound! Holding affections for another--for a _man_ , no less--after so quick an encounter? It's ludicrous, cliched, everything he strives _not_ to be, and yet--here he finds himself, wishing dearly that this near-stranger should show his face at the diner in question.

A light snort suddenly rips through his nostrils as he maneuvers into the bathroom to finish primping. It hardly matters what he wants, doesn't it? A real relationship between two men will never work. They would simply cause the downfall of one another. Besides, Jake can't be homosexual--the world simply doesn't work that way.

This isn't to say that Dirk is giving up; on the contrary, he is further driven by the challenge to tame the heart of the wild Jake English. He fears neither the consequences nor the struggles that shall preface the pursuit.

Perhaps the thing he fears greatest is simply being rejected, for to be denied by the one he holds affections for is essentially a rejection of his existence as a whole.

After all, he thinks sourly, scarcely does one happen across a man who accepts homosexuality without being queer himself.

~*~*~*~

Tightening his grip on the umbrella, he hastens toward the diner in question, not so much as wincing when a few stray droplets of rainwater fleck onto his face. He knows this entire plan is a bit unorthodox; the odds of Jake actually being inside are slim, and the explanation behind his desire to see the other's face is naught short of humiliating. A small fraction of his subconscious almost hopes that Mr. English is not inside--if nothing else, it will save him the possibility of being publicly discovered.

Oh, what sort of thinking is this? He's Dirk Fucking Strider, for goodness' sake! He can certainly take a little societal rejection, no sweat. Sure, the asylums and lobotomies are a bit perturbing, but they're nothing he cannot handle.

It's all about execution.

Folding down his umbrella, Dirk ducks beneath the overhead cover above the door, kicking his galoshes against the mat and drying himself off as much as possible. Tucking the sopping umbrella under his arm, he reaches forward and gently pushes the door open with his free hand; it swings on its hinges with a steady _creak_.  Slowly licking his dried lips, Dirk inhales a shaky breath and raises his head to meet the stare of his waitress at eye-level. Thankfully, a different woman will be serving him today, thus preventing any awkward recollections of the previous week. As she motions for him to follow, Dirk takes a moment to peer around the interior of the establishment, gumshoes squeaking slightly with every slow step. His eyes, hidden behind the usual pointed shades, idly meander around the diner, noting its strangely barren atmosphere. An old couple sits bickering in the corner, drowned out by both the faint sound of music and the settling rain outside.

And, as his stare drifts toward the other half of the interior, Dirk's eyes meet those of a certain English. A shared fleeting glance--a mutual gasp, tiny and silent--and Jake's attention fixes itself once more upon the dishelved omelet upon his plate. However brief their exchange may be, it remains far more than Dirk has hoped for up to this point; he has seen Jake again, and the other has seen him, and that's good enough for now.

Wordlessly, Dirk follows the waitress to his own table, which is a decent distance from Jake's. Sitting himself down, he orders a cup of coffee and two plates of waffles without butter or syrup; one of these plates is up for grabs, on the minimal chance that Jake comes to share conversation (if the other does not, then he will readily eat both plates).  He knows the chance of Jake coming by to talk is unlikely, let alone eat food that Dirk has unnecessarily paid for, but he has absolutely no intention of appearing dull. In short, by ordering two plates of food, he will appear either courteous or intriguingly bizarre--in Dirk's book, a win-win situation. Even if he comes off as strange, he will remain more prevalent in the other man's mind.

He's probably thought this through a _bit_ more than he should have. But, then, the odds of his success are marginally slim to begin with. 

As the waitress brings his coffee by, Dirk takes the mug from her and pours it over ice again; what he had said about having a sensitive stomach is true, at least--one of the many things his younger brother, Dave, would never let him live down. Little pain-in-the-ass. 

A few minutes pass in relative boredom. Dirk begins absently tapping his fingertips against the tabletop to the beat of the song; his gaze flickers over toward Jake every now and then, wanting for a prolonged look at the other man's face, yet knowing such a thing is impossible outside of an intimate setting. Even as his waffles are sat before him, the Strider finds himself far more enraptured by Jake's curious mannerisms than by the teasing scent of sweetened dough.

"G'day, Mr. Strider..."

... Mother of--! When did he get so goddamned _close_? A shadow casts itself upon Dirk's table, and surely enough, a certain Jake English stands at the end, squirming slightly in discomfort; it's plainly obvious to Dirk that he makes the older man uncomfortable.  Be it anxiety caused by attraction or fear, he cannot ascertain, but _something_ is there, and at the very least Dirk can leave some sort of impact. Although he would rather it be a positive impact, he's willing to take anything at this point.

Oh, hell, he's starting to sound desperate...

Jake's lips part to speak again, accent heavy and dripping from each sopping syllable. "Look, I need to talk to you..."

"... Yeah? What is it?" A tingle grows in Dirk's chest, uncomfortable yet welcome all the same. Although his voice and stare remain unwavering and strong, his innermost subconscious is positively ballistic at this point. He feels, admittedly, a bit ridiculous, almost akin to a young teenage boy. It's humiliating as fuck, and it all but drives the poor Strider insane. 

"About last week..." Jake's hand rises to the back of his neck, rubbing anxiously as he mulls over how to word whatever it is he has to say; Dirk sits perched at the end of his seat, mellow yet eager to hear the other's confession. "I didn't mean to leave you in the dust like that... Sorry, mate." A cough. "I mean, it's just that you're a different sort of fellow, and-"

"That's it?" Huh. Oddly, Dirk was expecting something far worse. Well, hey, no complaints, but... Hm. The aspect of Jake letting something so petty linger is mildly flattering, though nothing to make him gush affections or anything. Hey, he's Dirk Strider. It takes a lot to break his barriers.  "You actually feel guilty for that? All this time later?"

"... Huh?" A baffled look passes across Jake's face, forming an expression which Dirk cannot help but enjoy. Throughout their two short encounters, Jake has revealed such puzzlement on numerous occasions, and to the Strider, it is nothing short of amusing.  Does he truly leave the other man so frazzled? "Mr. Strider, what are you-"

"Dirk."

"... _Dirk_ , what are you implying? Are you mad?"

"Just surprised that made you feel so guilty, I guess." Giving a brief shrug of the shoulders, Dirk smirks, making a sudden realization. When did Jake sit down across from him...? Nonetheless, he does indeed sit in the other seat, a motion that sends Dirk's heart into a nervous flutter.  "I never thought anything of it. People are bastards to me all of the time."

A slow grimace crawls onto Jake's face, and Dirk realizes all too late what he has just implied. A subtle heat begins to cloud up in his cheeks, settling beneath his freckles and dear _god_ , he hopes it doesn't show. "W-Well, anyway, I need to head to work soon, so-"

"I got a job." The words spew out swiftly, thoughtlessly, in desperation; anything to amend his own mistake and prompt the other to remain here, if even only for a short while longer.

Thankfully, Jake both stays in his seat and neglects to acknowledge the sudden change in topic. If anything, he seems almost curious about the promise of Dirk having an occupation. "Oh, really? Where?"

"The mechanics shop down the road." To emphasize his point, Dirk jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "It's the shit."

"... "It's the" _what_?" The utter confusion upon Jake's face exhibits itself tenfold.  "Oh, dang nabbit, nothing you say makes a lick of sense!"

Dirk stifles a laugh, biting his lip to try holding in the snigger that threatens to penetrate. His lips quirk upward, twitching and aching  to smirk, if even only a little--and, with one final glance at Jake's face, he breaks. A quiet, snickering sort of laugh erupts from his chest, slightly wheezy yet genuine all the same. It's not often that Dirk is prompted to laugh, let alone to do so with such a lack of restraint. He feels so open, almost uncomfortably so--and thus, as his bout of laughter begins to die down, he calms his general demeanor and lessens his grin to a relatively straight expression.

He is not quite willing to commit to such blatant emotion (though it could come in time). That simply isn't the way he works.

"Time to head out." It's probably best to remove himself from this situation. Regardless of what Jake thinks of him now, he can't afford another slip up--not if he is to carry out his plan successfully. Rising from his seat at the table, Dirk takes a single step forward, though not before peering back at the other man one last time. He knows not how long it will be until their next encounter; he must take in all that he can of Jake's essence.

So it is that he lowers his sunglasses a little, allowing for a clearer view of the other's face. "Until next time, _mate_." Snorting at his own mimickry, Dirk turns back around and proceeds towards the door, dropping some money at the front counter before making his way outside.

He continues on his walk to the mechanic shop, whistling a tune under his breath and losing himself in thought.

That alluring goofball, that damned Jake English, will make him late on his first day of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter corresponds with Chapter 2 of Still of the Night.
> 
> Thanks to those of you who still comment/leave kudos/drop a mention on tumblr/etc. You are all very appreciated. :)


	3. Chapter 3

A year passes without a single encounter.

It’s not as if Dirk never gives Jake English another thought; why, to be so ignorant and inconsiderate of his own inner affections would do nothing but undermine him in the end. No, the next four seasons flicker by with the occasional remembrance of that cheery tan face, those striking emeralds staring back at his own citrines—but, alas, it is not meant to be.

Work has driven him from his old home, sending him to a sister complex nearer the location of the mechanic’s shop. Adjusting took a bit of time initially, especially when it came to reorganizing his many mechanisms and cables and whatnot, but he accustomed to the change in environment quickly enough. That’s just what Striders do, naturally.

Striders…

A small breath cascades from Dirk’s nostrils as he idles along the pathway back to his apartment. Perhaps his only complaint about the past twelve months is the knowledge that he has wasted a year of his life on such trivial, dull things as work and errands and lazing in between.  He can only wonder what Dave must be doing at times; is his younger sibling in as far of a rut as the elder Strider? One of these days, he’ll get around to calling Dave up and having a legitimate conversation—heck, even a letter would suffice. For the time being, however, he supposes there is nothing left to do but return home and rest up until the next time that his boss sporadically decides to call in.

It isn’t that he can’t find a better job with a more sufficient paycheck and a routine schedule. Quite frankly, he just doesn’t need to. He has a secure job working at the shop, and the constant exposure to various tools and parts assists him in developing the ideas for his little mechanism that he has been working on as of late. Yet, then again, that little gizmo hardly seems to be serving much of a purpose anyway.

A droplet of water plunges from the clouds above his head, trickling down the side of his shoulder—another few pummel his scalp— four more still, and a cascading downpour soon follows in suit, resoaking his already-damp clothes and matting his hair to his skull. It's been raining off and on like this all day; perhaps it's but a simple reminder of his own monotony.

But that's a terribly negative way of thinking about it.

"Hmm-hmmmmmm-hm-hmmm~!"

A melodic hum, off-key yet enticing, curls into the folds of his ear. Somewhere nearby, a faint hum is heard, barely audible over the pattering of raindrops against the pavement. The tune is foreign and the rain adds a faint distortion, but the tone which hums out melodically from around the corner has a sense of familiarity...

... Surely not...?

The chances are slim, yet not so much, all the same. Dirk only moved to the other side of town, but he has neither seen nor heard from Jake or Roxy since his departure from the old apartment. If this truly is Jake English, the man he once thought himself to be entirely over... Oh, bestill his foolish heart! So often, he has willed his affections down, first with that bastard, Caliborn, and now with this loony, lovable dork.

Curiosity ensnaring his mind, Dirk steps forward and rounds the corner at last, hesitant fingers tapping frantically at his sides.

It is, indeed, a certain Mr. English, sloshing water and kicking up puddles in a bizarre, trancelike movement. His peculiar dancing is one of the last things Dirk ever would have expected to find Jake doing (for, truly, it is strange beyond compare). In light of this, as Jake concludes his little "performance", Dirk cannot help but stifle a small, snorted laugh, allowing one of his jagged straw eyebrows to rise above the upper rim of his sunglasses. What a reunion this shall be—! Awkward, yet unique. Memorable, at the very least.

At this point, Jake has yet to notice him and, as such, doubles over with a small bout of giggling at his own peculiarity; his fingers hold a gunlike position out ahead of him. The sight of the other's cheery face makes Dirk's stomach turn flips--his heart nearly flutters up his throat and out through his mouth. His tongue grows heavy; his vocal cords strain to speak, to utter anything even mildly coherent, though the most he can muster up is a skeptical "English?"

Oh, fuck it all; Dirk has it _bad._

He still can't be sure that it's love. Something is there. Something lingers in his abdomen and jars him to the core. Something drives his mind to the heavens and sets his hormones ablaze. Something by the name of English.

He should probably begin using a first name basis...

"C-Crikey...!" Jake gives an alarmed sound at the sight of his old acquaintance; Dirk almost swears that he can feel the tension radiating off of the startled adventurer. The other's finger pistols fall loosely to his sides as his tongue seems to search for the right thing to say. As his Adam's apple bobs in a single swallow, Jake begins walking again, approaching Dirk in the process and giving a curt, reluctant nod of the head. "... 'ello, Strider."

With nary another utterance, he brushes past, fidgeting with the folds of his sleeves as he blatantly avoids eye contact with the Strider. Instinct looms over Dirk; in an instant, his fingers have themselves clamped over Jake's shoulder--his heart leaps up into his throat, constricting his tongue for a moment as he quickly and concisely struggles to put sensible thought into spoken word. "... Jake."

The shoulder beneath his grasp struggles slightly to wrench itself free from the firm yet gentle hand curled on top of it. Jake is still trying to evade him, and it's darn near driving him insane. "Jake, hold on, would you?"

Dirk watches as Jake's protruding teeth slide atop his lower lip, gnawing absently as a tiny sigh deflates his chest. That familiar green gaze peers back at him at last, unreadable in expression though clearly a little weary. A mere year or so has passed, but he seems different—more mature, somehow. It's unlikely that anything severe has actually changed, given their ages, but something has obviously molded Jake into _something_ else. A worn-down adventurer, trapped by the strict confinements of suburban society. Perhaps the "something else" isn't as positive as he initially thought.

Oh, how eager he is to speak to Jake once more...! Perhaps further discussion will prompt some answers from the older fellow. "... Uh. How's Roxy been?"

What the _actual fuck_ was that? What a conversational starter! Discussing his _drunken cousin_ after a solid year of missing the other? What the _hell_ is wrong with his mind? Alright, Strider, calm down. This was bound to be an awkward encounter, but he certainly hasn't helped it along any. The time has come to speak carefully, grow a pair, and _calm the fuck down_.

"She's... Fine..." Dirk's scrutinizing eyes fall once more upon his acquaintance's mug. The expression on Jake's face reads either utter skepticism or condescending sadism.  "... are _you_ fine?"

Taking the brief pause between Jake's sentences, Dirk finally regains control of his actions. Clearing his throat, he subconsciously straightens up his posture and shrugs his shoulders, peering at the other man with what he dearly hopes is an intriguingly mellow expression. "Me? Never been finer. I'm finer than a marionette's rump on a hot summer evening, smelting in the bright sun." Such a baffling analogy leaves Jake with an expression of utmost confusion, something Dirk prides himself in--he gives a short snort and veils his laughter behind a twitchy smirk. "Been a while, huh, Jake?"

"Yeah..." A thoughtful look flits across Jake's face, distant and misplaced as he contemplates something-or-other for a brief moment. "Sure has."

They stand in pregnant silence for a moment, broken only by the incessant papping of rain against Jake's umbrella. Said man seems to realize his discourteous behavior and steps slightly nearer Dirk, covering them both with the umbrella for the briefest of moments until the Strider steps out from the space and back into the rain. A small heat rises to his face, and as flattered as he is at the gesture, he knows Jake means it platonically; besides, it would look mighty suspiscious to passersby. Two grown men sharing an umbrella? It simply implies too much, and while he hasn't much shame in his sexuality, there's no purpose in flaunting a relationship that does not (yet) exist.

"Where've you been, by the way?" Jake speaks again, twisting the umbrella absently in his fingers. "Haven't seen you around the diner in over a year now, mate."

To this, Dirk merely shrugs his shoulders again. "Moved to the other end of town. The diner wasn't... convenient." He meets Jake's eyes with his own, though the other cannot directly see this, given Dirk's shades.

Huh. Jake is slightly taller than him.*

"Where are you going, Jake?"

"The supermarket. My gal's over having a baking crisis, and..."

The minute Jake mentions having a "gal", Dirk's hearing goes selective and his chest deflates a little. So... Jake is already seeing someone?

A woman, no less.

... Good for him.

"... Sounds nice." It isn't that Dirk doesn't want Jake's friendship—if he wants to go have a fling with some dame, then he can feel free. It's more the fact that _Dirk_ would rather be the source of Jake's happiness--the one person who can lift the older man's spirits and gain an affectionate smile in return. He has spent so many years with _nobody_ , save his brother across the country... He never asked for the isolation from his family—from society. It just happened, somehow. And he'll be damned if it doesn't hurt, if even only a little.

With nary another word, Dirk pushes past Jake and begins walking the opposite direction, lost in thought and generally too exhausted to keep it coherent; their arms brush as he makes his departure, sending a thrilled rush up his spine.

Perhaps he's being immature, fleeing from his problems like this. It _is_ a bit shameful, he cannot deny, and the moment that the other disappears from sight, he wishes that he hadn't run. The time has come for him to actually put his all forth; he has all but the world to offer, and anything lesser is nothing short of unacceptable.

Should they remain naught but acquaintances, so be it. But at least he can say that he gave it his best as a Strider, and generally that's all it takes.

Giving a small nod to himself, Dirk turns around and begins walking back up the hill, casually treading the sidewalk with his mind set on hunting Jake down.

He hasn't the faintest clue what he'll do once he _does_ find the other man, but, for now, such details are negligible.

~*~*~*~

After many minutes of searching the supermarket, Dirk spots Jake at last as the adventuring fellow nears the cash registers in the front of the store, bag of sugar tucked under the crook of his arm. Target in sights, Dirk must decipher only one thing more; how the hell is he supposed to approach Jake after leaving him in such a brisk manner? Not to mention the way that he is, presently, borderline _stalking_ the other man around the grocery store (good luck explaining that one...). Granted, he probably should have considered this before following Jake all the way here, but—ah! Here is his chance! As Jake grasps at the bag of sugar, the umbrella slips out of his fingers and plummets to the tile flooring beneath his feet.  "Ah, bollocks..."

"I've got it." Dirk speak smoothly, resisting the smirk that tugs at his lips. Call it cruel, but it's hard to look at Jake in such a flustered state without smiling, if even only slightly. 

"Dirk? What're _you_ doing here?" A stifled laugh pushes past Dirk's lips as he leans down to pick up the umbrella, tucking it under his arm with a sly smugness prevalent on his face. "Don't laugh at me, I'm serious!"

"Are you?" Jerking his head toward the exit, Dirk begins to walk, stuffing his chilly hands absently within the depths of his coat pockets; the umbrella remains nestled under his arm. "Come on, English.  I have some things to say. I don't think you want me to have Roxy relay this shit."

That earns Dirk a (rather dashing) grimace; his sentence, however, seems to have ushered Jake forward as well. "... Touché. Alright, alright. But we're walking home while we talk. Can't have Jane waiting any longer—she'll have my head!"

"Right..." Waving off thoughts of Jake's apparent girlfriend, Dirk begins to step in time with Jake, thinking idly to himself until the other breaks the silence that has settled between them.

"So." Jake's jade eyes linger upon Dirk's face for a moment. "Why did you follow me all the way to the supermarket? Not gonna lie, old chap, that's a tad bit creepy."

"I like to think of it as "ironic"."

"Um, sure..." Dirk peers over at Jake's troubled face for a minute or so, eyes flickering this way and that along the other's features in search of something—of some sign that English isn't entirely detesting this time spent in his company.

Licking his drying lips, Dirk speaks up at last. "Jake?"

"Hm?"

"What the hell were you doing when I saw you earlier?"

At the mention of the dance-thing Jake had been caught performing, said man flushes red; it's faint, but the rosy color still lingers beneath his tanned complextion. "A-Aha, nothing much. Just sort of got lost in the old noggin, that's all. I'm from this island in the Pacific, you see, where there isn't really much civilization, so we had to learn to defend ourselves. I have these two pistols, and—"

For the remainder of their stroll, Jake rambles on about his upbringing—everything is covered in utmost enthusiasm, from his childhood up to his grandma's death, at which point he stops short, for they have arrived at his house at last. The sudden absence of voice mildly startles Dirk; he could get quite accustomed to hearing Jake's accented voice on a daily basis. So passionate, so jumbled... It's difficult to understand him at times, but all comprehension requires is a little extra attention, and Dirk is more than willing to give his full focus to the ensnaring islander.

"Ah, sorry, chum... Got carried away, didn't I?" Said man gives a faint chuckle, patting the back of his head somewhat sheepishly. 

"Nah, it's cool." Albeit hesitantly, Dirk relinquishes his hold on the umbrella. His hand rises to his forehead in a salute-esque wave of the hand. "See you around?"

"... Yeah... Bye." Chancing one last, awkward smile, Jake tips his hat at the Strider and steps inside the house; the door clicks shut behind him.

As Dirk turns to continue on down the sidewalk, a peaceful, oddly calm smile drifts upon his face, and although he wills it down, he finds that it dares not budge. It was sort of nice, catching up like this... He thought himself long over Mr. Jake English, but it would seem that fate has something entirely different in mind for the two of them.

Yes, Dirk decides with a swift nod; the smile is dissipated as he peers up at the clouded sky. However obstructed, something grand lies ahead of them, and he has a strong feeling that he'll be seeing more of Jake soon enough.

The rain from above keeps pouring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter corresponds with chapter 3 of StillOTN.
> 
> * This was established in Still of the Night before Jake was canonically proven to be shorter. 
> 
> Also, someone brought something up that I felt I should mention. If you ever wanna write an alternate scene or a side story to this fic series, go right ahead! As long as you credit me somewhere with the original fic, you can do what you want with this fanfiction (within reason--and I'd love to see it, if you do~!)
> 
> Anyway. Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. I'll be working on a JohnKat fic soon too, so keep checking back~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. See notes at the end.

_Dave Strider_  
#### Harvest Boulevard  
Elko, NV ##### 

_January 2nd, 1950_

_Dear Dave,_

_Hey, bro. Haven't talked to you in a while; mostly just writing to say hey._

_As usual, life is boring as hell out here. I'd ask how life in the middle of nowhere is, but I imagine it's as bone-dry as always. Remind me again why you moved out to El-crap in the first place?_

_Not much happening down in Tejas. It's really fucking hot, but that's nothing new..._

_I have an appointment this weekend about my sinusitis?_

_Yeah._

_Screw this letter, just write back, okay?_

_Let me know how things are,_

_Dirk Strider_

_Dirk Strider_  
#### Marcus Lane  
Houston, TX ##### 

_February 16th, 1950_

_dear bro,_

_heh_

_dear_

_there's a laugh_

_hey dude chill out_

_seriously im fine and so is elko_

_besides i have this sick idea for a flick_

_I feel pretty fucking awesome about this one_

_im going somewhere with this next plot_

_your sinuses are still screwed up huh_

_that sucks man_

_hey check it_

_i met this dame up at the bank yesterday_

_name was jade or jane or something_

_i don't remember_

_snagged an outing with her this weekend_

_she has a sister i could hook you up with if you want_

_write back sooner this time_

_it shouldnt take three months for you to write me a letter for fucks sake_

_talk to you later, bro_

_dave strider_

_Dave Strider_  
#### Harvest Boulevard  
Elko, NV ##### 

_February 19th, 1950_

_Dear Dave,_

_A new flick? You've said the same exact thing at least twice before. What's this one about, then? Do I really want to know?_

_I went to the doctor; he gave me another test drug. That makes four different test meds in a year; unbelievable, isn’t it? I feel like a lab rat. Sure, we have more medication than we did before the war, but the doctors still can't tell a cold from cancer._

_Congrats on the lady. No, I do not have the slightest inkling of want for her sister. Leaving it there. I’m a happy-as-fuck bachelor, thanks._

_There; it's been three days instead. Happy?_

_~ Dirk Strider_

_Dirk Strider_  
#### Marcus Lane  
Houston, TX ##### 

_March 17th, 1950_

_bro_

_its the shit man_

_its about these two guys_

_who have sicknasty shenanigans_

_itll be fucking amazing_

_jeez man_

_youre kidding me_

_guess youre just screwed then huh_

_that sucks_

_at least its just allergies_

_why the hell not anyway_

_have you ever even had a girlfriend_

_you could rake them in if you tried_

_I mean youre a strider and all_

_id ask more but on the off chance this letter gets lost or some shit id better not say anything else_

_smartass you just wrote the date differently_

_dave strider_

_Dave Strider_

_#### Harvest Boulevard_

_Elko, NV #####_

_April 30th, 1950_

_Dear Dave,_

 

 

 

 

Minute upon minute trickles past, each as discomforting as the last, each welling up greater frustration within Dirk’s troubled mind. His eyes linger longer upon the blank sheet of paper sitting in front of him; his brain throbs tensely in the confinements of his strained skull. Absently, his fingers drum against the top of his faintly-lit desk, fiddling occasionally with the little black pen sitting precariously beside Dave’s last letter. Despite his best efforts, Dirk Strider finds himself at a loss for words, a loss for communicative language in general; he began this letter months ago, yet here it sits, same as always.

There simply isn’t a good way of telling one’s little brother that they are homosexual.

… It would probably be wisest to let it go and tell him in person. Someday.

Someday… No, _today_. If he doesn’t get it over with now, Dave will find out, and hell if he knows how the younger man will react.

Licking his dried lips, Dirk reaches for the fountain pen in the corner and proceeds to write.

 

_Dear Dave,_

_Ordinarily, I would get on the next train up to Nevada and beat you back into submission, but I have too much shit going on right now to worry about things like that._

_Oh yeah, don’t remember if I told you or not, but I met back up with Roxy. You remember her at all? She’s fine, but her drinking has gotten worse. But then, that doesn’t really make her any more or less better off than the rest of us. Woman or not, she’s pulling her weight. She even got a job, somehow. She’s plenty capable, but with all of the unemployment, it surprises me._

_~~I met this guy recently—his name is Jake... He’s pretty cool; I think you two would get along. He has this weird obsession with movies, and his accent is thicker than anything I ever heard overseas, but—~~ _

 

No, no. That isn’t the proper way to do it. Too much beating around the bush. What more could he say, perhaps, to come off as more straightforward?

~~_I have my eyes on somebody already. I think he’s a keeper._ ~~

A “keeper”? Ugh, no. He’s not Jane, for fuck’s sake.

_So. I’m queer, bro._

That… might actually work.

Regardless, despite each line being crossed out, they are still legible if he looks closely enough. Hopefully these not-so-subtle hints are enough to get his point across. 

_I have a lot to say, and after this letter, I imagine you do as well. Please write back soon, or call or something, and we can discuss this if you want. And don’t flip shit._

_Talk to you soon, I hope._

_Dirk Strider_

 

~*~*~*~

2:00 am settles in around him the next morning—overriding black and stillness, stale vivacity, a hazy nightscape stuffed uncomfortably into the disheveled interior of the foreign residency. A shadow shifts with slight movements, fingers curling, brow tensing, as it wades blindly through the crevices and fissures of darkness, passing its hand over the rough fringe of carpet beneath the sofa. Stifling back a sigh, he raises his groggy head, wincing at both the loom of slumber and the sticky residue encrusting his upper lip and chin. Despite the lack of light seeping in through the drawn curtains, Dirk finds himself all too aware of his present location, and the very inkling pulses harder in his skull.

One moment he was dropping off his letter to Dave, and the next, he finds himself snoozing away on Jake’s couch like a drunkard turning in after a wild night of shots. What it is that brought him here remains entirely obscured from memory, though by the bitter brittleness caked to his facial skin, he can only assume that his sinusitis was acting up again. “Damn drugs…” he mutters under his breath, nary more than a whisper, though loud enough to hiss out in the near-silence of the latent suburban home. He can only assume that Jake has seen him already; why, the poor man was probably scared out of his wits when he discovered Dirk unconscious on his sofa. Indeed, if he subdues himself for a moment or so, the faint sound of Jake’s heavy breathing echoes down the hall and toward his waiting ears.

How on earth is he supposed to explain this to Jake if he can’t recall anything past six o’clock of the prior evening? He can hardly explain the situation to himself! Why—What…?

Perhaps it’s too early to consider such things. Okay, so these circumstances suck, but there is nothing more he can do, especially at this hour. Besides, the medication hasn’t worn off entirely, he assumes, because his head still feels a bit off balance.

Whatever occurred, whatever was said and done… It can wait.

~*~*~*~

 

"Dirk! What-? You... What are you're doing?"

(For one reason or another, Dirk Strider finds himself frying a pan of bacon for them to share the next morning; he assures himself that it’s probably just the medication prompting him to do such things.)

Said Strider, bearing his triangular sunglasses as always, says nothing on the matter, far too absorbed in his own thought for proper, coherent responses. After countless minutes wasted in calculation upon Jake’s couch, Dirk finds himself just as uncertain about his possible revelations as when he first awoke. He will be questioned, interrogated, by the adventuring goof, but the extent of such examination remains yet to be seen. Swallowing shortly, he piles up the remaining strips of bacon onto a platter and picks it up with his free hand; his anxious eyes avoid the other’s chartreuse gaze all the while. "Made some bacon. Pull up a chair."

"Dirk?"

Sliding into a seat beside Jake, he picks up a piece of pork and absently taps the end against the plate; beneath the table, his right hand rests atop his knee and begins to curl up. "… Yeah?"

"... Look, chum…” Jake’s lips quirk downward, revealing to the Strider a rare frown; Dirk’s toes mimic his fingers at this point, clenching and curling and tensing in preparation of the conversation yet to come. Like hell is he scared of Jake’s berating, but the idea of losing all connection with English because of this unfortunate situation does not rest well with him. “"There's a lot we need to talk about. I have to go to work in an hour, but I'm going to hear you out as much as I-”

“Spit it out.” The venom in his voice, however unintentional, slips out on unsteady tongue, and the pads of his left fingers tighten on the strip of bacon.

"Okay, first off: how did you get into my house?"

"Roxy gave me her key on Saturday."

"Why were you even in my house?"

Yep, there it is—the inevitable question. "Because shit was going down." What more is he supposed to say? He hardly knows himself why he wound up evading to Jake’s residency during one of his bloody lapses. Dirk can tell that Jake is getting frustrated at this point.

"I'm actually being serious right now, Dirk!"

"So am I.”

"Okay, why did you show up bleeding?"

"I have sinusitis."

"... What?"

"I get chronic nosebleeds. It happens a lot. Those pills in my coat? They're supposed to help with that stuff."

"... oh.” The sudden realization—regret—in Jake’s voice stops Dirk dead in his thought process. Sour guilt swells and pools in his stomach, and it takes the utmost effort in controlling himself—in retraining himself from foolishness, from temptation… He can’t blow this now; he can’t afford to. “Anything else I should know about? Deep secrets or anything?"

Deep secrets. How droll.

How enticing it is, to consider confiding in Jake English…! To reveal to the man his conditions, his orientations, his every last fiber… But, alas, such a thing can never be—not in a world like this. Not while they risk prosecution—persecution—for something as trivial as partner-based preferences. Moreover, the chance of Jake being interested in a relationship like that is incredibly unlikely, practically inexistent—not to mention the fact that he already has a girlfriend.

With a minimal sigh, Dirk lifts his chin a little, turns his head, and casts his veiled eyes upon the pink-tinged face of his male companion. "... Nope. I'm a pretty fucked up guy, but..."

"Well, good. Dang nabbit, Dirk. You really had me worried last night, mate.” A tiny smile, albeit nervous, twitches upon his lips. “Thought you had TB or internal bleeding or something."

The slice of bacon in Dirk’s trembling fingers slips from his grasp and onto the plate, halting him in mid-bite with his lips parted in a rare expression of emotion. Has… Has Jake truly been so concerned for his wellbeing? Certainly, TB and other such ailments are (likely) far more serious than his meager sinus disorder, but the concern—the undertone of utter uneasiness—that roosts in his accented voice is far beyond what Dirk has expected up to this point. They are pals, yes, but something in Jake’s voice, the way he speaks, seems to reach beyond a simple kinship.

Oh, what is he saying? Of course not—surely it can never be? What are the odds of Dirk’s best friend, a man in a relatively small town, being open to the idea of a homosexual relationship? With the scarcity (and subtly) of such people, the chance is, more or less, entirely unreal. Is his interpretation simply a result of romantic desperation? "You were that worried about me?"

"Of course I was!" Those enticing eyes lure him in from behind large wire-framed glasses; the corners of Jake’s mouth twitch ever-so-slightly. “You're my best pal, Dirk. Somehow, you've come to be important to me, you know? I mean, as much as Jane or Roxy ha…”

Swallowing hard, Dirk lifts his hands from his sides; in a slow, tremulous motion, his fingers lift, lift, and settle feather-faint against Jake’s face. The adventurer’s tongue struggles to speak Dirk’s name, visible via shock-parted lips, though seems to give up such a task while the Strider tests his boundaries. Said blonde allows his hands to linger a bit longer, softly sliding them down caramel skin, along the upper edge of Jake’s jaw, then back again to where coarse black locks line his face, framing two ears and a prominent forehead. Impulse upon impulse rips through his skin, along his bones, and skirts across his every nerve, and with a swift wince, Dirk steadily brings Jake’s head forward—

"What...?” Comprehension of impending circumstances finally seems to strike Jake squarely, and with a stammering flush, he jostles Dirk roughly away from him. “What was that?"

What was that? Why, does Dirk himself even know? Giving an internal sigh, he shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his seat. "I was going to kiss you."

"You... what?"

"… Thought that was pretty obvious." A renewed nervousness tingles in Dirk’s extremities. He has never feared rejection, but the promise of losing a friend over his trivial sexuality is something entirely different.

"So... you're a co—” Dirk visibly flinches at the deprecating word he expects to follow; thankfully, Jake at least seems to catch himself. “—a homosexual...?"

"I'm whatever kind of 'sexual' you want me to be, English." Whatever Jake wanted to label them as—if “they” ever became a relevant thing—is satisfying enough for him. He’s never been especially big on labels, given the often derogatory connotation of such names, but if Jake would rather identify as something in particular, so be it.

"Please, stop that..." At this point, Jake’s focus has fixated entirely elsewhere; it shifts on occasion, alters in intensity and in perception, yet not once lands on the blonde’s concealed irises. "Strider, grab your things and get out of here. I... I need some time to think."

Wordlessly, expressionlessly, Dirk lowers his head in a curt nod. To say that he didn’t anticipate as much would be a right bluff, but that does not, by any means, lessen the pain. Rolling his aching shoulders, he rises from his seat by the table and strolls solemnly into the living room to gather his belongings. As he slides the coat on over his frame, he chances one final glance back in the direction of his male companion, who presently eyes his every movement with an intensifying dread.

There is no question in his mind that Jake’s trust in him has dissipated entirely.

With a brief roll of the eyes, Dirk pulls the handle back, steps outside, and closes the door quietly behind him.

The moment the door clicks shut, Dirk Strider’s hand rises to cup his forehead in stress. A haziness consumes his head once more and his brain throbs against his skull; from such contact, the faint scent of Jake’s breath, mottled with the smell of bacon, still fills his nostrils to the brim, and the tips of his fingers burn, _prickle_ , at the recollection of that stubble-dusted face.

Dear god, what did he just _do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter corresponds with Still of the Night Chapter 6. This might be where things get a bit unclear if you haven't read StillOTN yet.
> 
> But moving on...
> 
> I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> This took SOOOO much longer than I would have liked, and I apologize for my spontaneous hiatus, but I was having the worst writer's block, and I still am, in part, and I'm not entirely satisfied with how this came out and... Gah. It's been a stressful few months. D':
> 
> But I'm back, hopefully. I can't report how often I'll be uploading chapters, especially since I have a new series that I'm working on (WBSR; if you like Johnkat, go check it out). But I won't quit on you, I swear it. No matter how long it takes me, I will keep writing this.


End file.
